


I Was In The Neighborhood

by AndreaChristoph



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Couch Snuggles, F/M, Flynn holds tiny baby, Romantic Fluff, Thanksgiving, garcy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 23:31:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16252025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndreaChristoph/pseuds/AndreaChristoph
Summary: “How hard could a turkey be?”Famous last words.Lucy volunteers to host Thanksgiving dinner and it backfires on her.  Garcia Flynn to the rescue.(Or: The Thanksgiving fluff fic that no-one asked for. Also featuring Flynn holding a tiny baby.  Just pure schmoopy fluff.)





	I Was In The Neighborhood

**Author's Note:**

> It was Thanksgiving in Canada this past weekend and I found myself having the burning urge to whip this together. Just a bunch of fluff, since I've spent so long drudging through constant angst and action in my other fic.

“How hard could a turkey be?”

Famous last words.  As it turns out, Lucy is finding it incredibly hard, yet another recipe the internet lied to her about the difficulty of.  When she’d agreed to host Thanksgiving dinner that evening, she thought she’d been smart pawning off side dishes for her guests to bring so she could focus on the main event.  Now she’d give anything to be dealing with mashing overcooked potatoes or burning brussels sprouts instead.

Her hands are covered in butter that she’s been attempting to shove under the bird’s skin (and can she just say  _ ew _ ) when her phone vibrates on the counter.  She panics for a moment but realizes belatedly that it’s just a text, and uses her elbow to swipe and pull up the message.

_ So how long before I need to buy an emergency backup turkey? - R _

Lucy rolls her eyes, sighing, and taps the voice response button, again using her elbow.

_ Ha ha.  Oh, ye of little faith. - L _

The next half hour is a mess of butter-shoving and cursing as the skin tears, and she’s about ready to throw the entire thing out the window when she hears a knock at the door.  She glances at the clock on the wall - only noon, far too early for her guests to be arriving yet, meaning it’s likely something pointless like a solicitor or UPS delivery. For a half second she contemplates ignoring it, and then hears the knock again.  Sighing and wiping her buttery hands on far too much paper towel, she heads for the door, not bothering to remove her apron, and she glances in her hallway mirror only briefly to make sure she looks at least marginally presentable before opening the door.

And for the first time in her whole life, she finds herself wishing it was someone looking to sell her a vacuum, as on the other side of the door she finds a bemused Garcia Flynn on her doorstep with a bottle of red wine in hand, and he looks her up and down before smirking.  “So...things are going well, I gather?”

She rolls her eyes and steps back to let him in, closing the door behind him before heading back down the hall to the kitchen.  “You’re early. Way, way too early.” Lucy steps back around the kitchen island and resumes getting wrist deep in butter, now far more self-conscious about the whole thing as Flynn removes his jacket and stands on the opposite side of the island watching her.  

“I was bored.  And suspected you might need a hand.  Or two.”

Lucy pauses and fixes him with an unimpressed look.  “What makes you say that?”

His eyes drift down to the decimated turkey and then back to her face.  “The bird you’re currently skinning, for starters.”

She huffs.  “This is harder than it looks, give me a break.”

“Weren’t you the one who signed up for this?”  Flynn grabs the bottle of red wine he’d brought and rummages in the cutlery drawer for a corkscrew, then retrieves a glass from the cupboard above and pours it half full before setting it beside Lucy.  “Time for a coffee break.”

She rinses her buttery hands thoroughly in the sink before reaching for the glass and taking several small sips in quick succession.  Flynn is leaning against the counter, one arm crossed under the one holding his own wine glass, with an eyebrow raised and still smiling in that enraging way that just makes Lucy feel like he’s laughing at her inside.  She looks at him properly for the first time, noting that he’d actually adhered to her RSVP instructions of ‘dress to impress or else’, as he’d opted for dress pants and a burgundy button-up shirt. The top two buttons are still undone and she does her best not to let her eyes drift to the hint of skin there, instead hiding behind her glass to take another sip.  

“What?” she asks, noticing Flynn looking at her pointedly.

“You know that thing has to get in the oven within the next-”  He glances at his watch. “-one hour or so if you want it to be ready in time, yeah?”

“I am entirely aware, thank you.”  Lucy runs a hand through her hair and sighs.  “I’ve been researching turkey recipes all week in preparation.  Turns out it’s easier said than done.”

Flynn chuckles.  “It’s really not.  At least, not for those of us who don’t have the cooking skills of a seventh grade home economics student.”

She scoffs, but takes another sip of her wine instead of responding.  Deep down she knows he’s right, but she’s hardly about to admit it when he’s already standing over there all smug and superior.

“I didn’t see you volunteering.”

“And deprive myself of the spectacle?  Anyway, I had my hands full with my own dish assignment.”  He refills her wine, then retrieves two canvas bags from the floor and pulls a casserole dish from each, putting one into her fridge while the other stays on the counter.  Lucy watches curiously, reaching out to lift the lid of the dish that was left on the counter, and Flynn swats her hand away. “No snacking.”

“I just wanted a peek,” she mumbles, mock pouting before grinning.  “So what dishes did the great chef Garcia Flynn bestow upon us mere mortals?  Since you talk a big game and all.”

Flynn grins in return.  “Pašticada for dinner, salenjaci for dessert.”  At Lucy’s blank look, he adds, “Croatian recipes; I thought that part might be obvious.  I used to make them for every Christmas since Lorena and I were married.” His smile falters a little, just enough that a casual observer would miss it, but Lucy isn’t a random stranger and knows him a little too well at this point for that.  “It’s been a while. But both turned out well so I guess I’m not as rusty as I thought I might be.” 

He drains his wine glass and sets it aside before unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling the sleeves back.  Lucy’s eyes drift over his bare forearms slowly, the wine clearly starting to have some effect as she entirely forgets any semblance of subtlety, which means she also manages to miss Flynn casting a smirk her way as he sees her openly staring.

“Apron?” he asks, and she gestures vaguely toward a hook on the wall near the fridge.  He opts for the least overtly feminine of the lot (somewhat surprised at the number of aprons Lucy has considering she can burn water) and slips it over his dress clothes, then goes to stand in front of the turkey.  It finally occurs to Lucy what he’s doing and she sets down the wine glass quickly.

“Hey!  That’s my job!”  She gives him a playful elbow to the side.  “Hands off.”

“There’s nothing wrong with giving a helping hand.  Herbs?”

Lucy is still for a moment, contemplating further protest, then decides it couldn’t hurt to delegate for a while and retrieves fresh herbs from the fridge.  Flynn pulls a chef’s knife from a nearby knife block and sets to chopping the herbs, and Lucy watches in slight awe as his hands deftly maneuver across the cutting board, making quick work of the rosemary, sage, and thyme.  He slides the pile of herbs onto the knife edge and dumps it into the remainder of her butter, then sets to smearing it under what remains of the turkey skin.

She takes a seat on one of the barstools across the island from him and watches, elbow resting on the countertop with her chin in her palm.  As much as she joked about his cooking skills, she’s finding herself incredibly impressed as she watches him work. He makes a face at the knife at one point as it catches on the carrots he’s cutting and retrieves the sharpening steel from the knife block, and Lucy bites her lip slightly as she watches him sharpen the knife with the kind of speed she’s only ever seen on professional cooking shows.  It could, of course, not be a particularly impressive feat, but Lucy wouldn’t know, as she’s not sure the sharpening steel has ever been removed from the knife block since it was purchased.

“You’re pretty good at this, huh?” she says as Flynn finishes and slides the covered turkey into the oven before turning to the sink to wash his hands.

“Lots of practice.”  He smiles, somewhat bittersweet.  “Lorena was never very good at cooking in general so it was usually on me.  The Croatian dishes I learned from my grandmother when we had Christmas dinner at her place in Hvar.  The rest came later from trial and error. My mother was always a bit too busy with work to cook and it usually fell on my father’s shoulders to make sure I didn’t starve.”  He pauses. “Or me and Gabriel, I suppose. Not that I’d remember that, of course.”

“How forward thinking of the Flynns, the men tending to the house while mom brings home the butter.”

Flynn laughs, slipping the apron off and setting it on the edge of the counter.  He grabs the open bottle of wine and retrieves both of their glasses in the fingers of one hand, then goes to sit in the living room, nodding for Lucy to follow him.  She’s had the fireplace going for most of the day, her tolerance for cold being ridiculously low, and as they seat themselves on the sofa in front of it, she retrieves a throw blanket to drape over herself and sighs in contentment.  Flynn waits for her to get comfortable, then hands Lucy her wine glass and refills it.

They spend the next hour idly chatting, Flynn telling her more about his childhood in Zagreb and memories of holidays with his parents.  Lucy listens with intense interest, intrigued by this version of Flynn that she would never have the pleasure of meeting.

“And what about now that you’ve been pardoned?” she asks as he finishes his story.  “Are your parents still in Zagreb? Would you go visit them?”

Flynn smiles and looks down at his wine glass.  “We had already grown distant around the time I was married.  They didn’t approve of my line of work. Things got a bit better after Iris was born - she was their only grandchild - and obviously after…”  He trails off and swallows deeply. “They were given the alternate version of the story, much like everyone else, which they believed up until six months ago.  I’ve been told they were informed of the correct version of events shortly after we decommissioned the Lifeboat, but…they’ll reach out if and when they want to, I suppose.”

“That must be lonely.”  Lucy rests a hand gently on the arm that Flynn has laying across the back of the couch.  “No one to spend holidays with.”

He doesn’t draw any attention to the fact that Lucy’s hand has remained on his arm, though he suddenly looks a bit flushed.  He shrugs. “I’ve gotten quite used to it after the past several years. Hell, I haven’t sat down to a proper family dinner in god knows how long.  But I suppose you’d know best what it’s like.”

It’s Lucy’s turn to smile sadly.  “Thanksgiving was always quiet around my house.  No extended family - that I knew of, anyway - and my mother was a workaholic, so typically Amy was the one to handle getting everything ready.  There were even a few years where she cooked the whole thing herself. We all know I wasn’t any help.” She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “I miss that girl so much it hurts, sometimes.”

“I know the feeling.”  Flynn withdraws his arm from Lucy’s hand just enough that he can instead loosely twine his fingers with hers.  This time it’s her that blushes, but she finds herself curling her fingers against his as well. Flynn’s hand is comically large compared to Lucy’s, and marked with scars of varying degrees of severity, and yet he’s incredibly gentle, almost hesitant about touching her.  A gentle giant. She laughs quietly to herself.

“What?” Flynn asks, smiling despite his confusion.  Lucy shakes her head and gives his fingers a gentle squeeze before standing.

“I think it’s time for bottle number two.”  Flynn starts to get up, intending to retrieve it for them (god, what a gentleman he was sometimes), and Lucy places a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back into a sitting position.  “You got the first one, you sit right there and wait.”

Another hour of talking goes by, this time Lucy telling stories of her own childhood, before eventually her eyes start to grow heavy.  It could be the general cozy feeling of fire and a blanket, or it could just be the wine, but whatever the cause, eventually Lucy shifts on the couch to lay against Flynn’s arm.  He too is finding it a struggle to stay awake and leans back against the corner of the couch, Lucy sliding with him as he moves so that she comes to rest with her cheek against his chest.  Flynn looks down at her sleeping peacefully against him and idly runs his fingers softly through her hair. Lucy stirs but doesn’t wake, a hint of a smile on her face as she sighs. Before long Flynn’s head rests against the arm of the couch as he too falls asleep, still holding Lucy against him.

They’re rudely awakened sometime later by the dual sound of the smoke alarm and Lucy’s doorbell, both of them starting abruptly and sitting up in panic.  “Oh god, shit, no no no,” Lucy moans, rushing into the kitchen and dreading what she’ll find. Flynn crosses around the opposite side of the kitchen island and reaches the oven first.

“I’ll deal with this, you go check the door.”

Lucy hesitates but complies, stopping to hit the reset button on the smoke alarm as she passes.  She opens the door to find a crowd of people standing on the other side, and Rufus, in particular, has a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Sounds like things are going well!”

“Shut it,” Lucy mutters, gesturing for them to come inside.  Rufus and Jiya clear the foyer quickly, carrying their dishes toward the kitchen, and Wyatt and Jessica enter behind them.  Wyatt is struggling to maneuver an oversized diaper bag and their dinner contribution, and things only get worse as Jessica hands him their daughter as well so she can remove her coat and shoes.  “Oh don’t be silly, give me her,” Lucy says as she reaches to take Abigail from Wyatt, who hands her off eagerly before he has a chance to drop anything (namely, his daughter).

“Are you okay with her?” Jessica asks.  Lucy knows it’s more out of concern for inconveniencing Lucy than out of any doubt she can handle a baby, but Lucy still feels somewhat affronted by the question.  Fortunately, it doesn’t show on her face, and she smiles and nods, ushers the new parents off toward the kitchen as well.

Next to enter is Denise and Michelle (Lucy isn’t sure the team has ever been this consistently punctual for anything), both giving Lucy a quick hug as Olivia and Mark say a quick hello and rush past their mothers.  Lucy spots backpacks on both and cocks her head at Denise curiously.

“They both have midterms coming up soon.  Plus it’ll keep them busy.” There’s a glint of mischief in Denise’s eye as she says this and Lucy is grateful, as she isn’t sure the books (and not much else) littering her house would be enough to entertain two teenagers long enough to keep them out of trouble.

Connor is the last to enter, leaning in to give Lucy a hug and deftly avoiding crushing Abigail in the process, and he holds up the dinner offering he’s brought with him - a casserole that very clearly was purchased at the supermarket.  He grins apologetically. “Lost track of time, I know you said homemade, but I figured given the choice between ‘premade’ and ‘nothing’...”

“Oh hush Connor, it’s fine.  I came pretty close to resorting to that myself.”  She closes the door finally, shifting Abigail onto her other hip, and follows Connor down the hall.

To her pleasant surprise, the turkey survived the ordeal with the smoke alarm, and Flynn is currently standing at the counter carving it with deft hands and laying the meat out on a platter that she doesn’t recognize at first, until she comes closer and realizes it’s the very same platter that Amy used to use for every holiday dinner she prepared.  “Where did you find that?” Lucy asks quietly, and Flynn nods toward the top shelf of the cupboard. Just then he seems to notice the baby curled against Lucy’s shoulder, watching him with bright brown eyes. 

He sets the knife down for a moment and wipes his hands on a nearby towel, then holds a finger out for Abigail to grasp.  Her entire hand barely fits halfway around his index finger and he wiggles it gently, eliciting a toothless smile in response.  Flynn grins. “Nice grip you have there, missy.” Without missing a beat, he adds, “Looks like you take after your mommy.”

Jessica snorts mid-sip of her drink and quickly hides a laugh under the guise of coughing instead, as her husband gives both her and Flynn the most unimpressed look he can muster before rolling his eyes and returning to his conversation with Rufus and Connor.  Bemused, Lucy smiles and goes back to bouncing lightly on her feet, swaying back and forth in an effort to soothe Abigail to sleep. 

Dinner itself goes relatively quick despite the conversations that continue between bites, and the entire group compliments Lucy on her turkey, which makes her glance over at Flynn briefly.  He is quiet, looking entirely too interested in his plate of food, but she can see the smirk he’s trying hard not to let show. She opts not to correct their assumption that she handled the bird all on her own, as she’s enjoying (for once) the praise of her cooking abilities...even if Flynn did 75% of the work.  At one point Wyatt emphatically praises the pašticada and asks who prepared it, and upon finding out it was Flynn’s handiwork, mutters a quick “It’s decent” and goes back to eating.

Near the end of the meal, Lucy clears her throat and raises her glass, and the whole table quiets and reaches for their own glasses.  “I just wanted to make a toast. It’s been a rough few years for all of us, and we’ve had just as many losses as wins. Rittenhouse may be gone, but it’s a bittersweet victory.”  She touches a hand to her sternum briefly, a habit that never fully went away despite her locket being long gone. “So...a toast. To those we’ve lost, who we will never forget.”

Flynn’s face is a mix of emotions as he lifts his glass along with the others, murmuring something quietly in what Lucy guesses is Croatian.  There’s a pain in his expression, but tempered with a peacefulness as well. Lucy reaches under the table to touch his knee briefly, and he lays his free hand over hers and squeezes in return, giving her a small smile without turning his head.

Once the dishes are cleared, the guests disperse to various points around the room, a few to play games while others opt to just sit and chat.  Lucy retrieves Abigail from Jessica once more so she can join Wyatt for cards, and goes to sit on the sofa beside Flynn. He’s slowly sipping a whiskey, lost in thought, and only notices Lucy as she seats herself near him.  He sets down his drink and extends his arms, and Lucy hands him Abigail carefully. The baby looks minuscule in his arms, but he rocks her gently with a practiced ease. She leans against him to stroke Abigail’s soft blond hair, her other arm slung over the back of the couch with her hand resting on Flynn’s shoulder.

“You’re good with her,” she murmurs quietly as Abigail starts to drift off.  Flynn smiles.

“You never really forget how.  Iris was only half this size when she was born.  Every time I touched her I felt like I was going to break her, until one evening Lorena sat me down in the rocking chair and told me I couldn’t put her down until she fell asleep.  She watched me while I rocked her, didn’t cry once.” Flynn swallows heavily. “That was the night I promised her I’d never let her get hurt.” Lucy’s eyes shift to Flynn as she feels an ache of sympathy in her chest.  His smile is a bit strained, but he shakes his head slightly to indicate he’ll be fine. “You seem to be a bit of a natural, though.”

“I always wanted a family.  Not a big one, maybe one or two.  I always imagined sitting in bed with a kid under each arm, reading them biographies of all the great men and women in history.  Even went out and bought a few kids versions of the books at one point. Temporary moment of insanity. Not even sure where they ended up.”  She shrugs. “Won’t need them any time soon, I suppose.”

He looks lost in thought, and Lucy finds herself lost in thought as well, imagining the same scene, but with Flynn standing in the doorway watching them, winking at her as she looks up from the book briefly and lifting one of the sleeping kids in his arms as they carry them back to their beds.  Her heart flutters as she imagines it, but she manages for once to avoid blushing, and lays her head on Flynn’s shoulder.

“Garcia?”

“Hm?”

“Would you want to grab dinner sometime this week?”  Not missing a beat, she adds, “Just to pay you back for helping with the turkey.”

Flynn chuckles.

“Absolutely.”


End file.
